Perchance to Dream
by SailorChronos1
Summary: Set after the S5 finale, Reese lives. Two lost men dream of each other and the love the binds them together. Rinch. (Inspired by a dream!)
1. Dreaming

Person of Interest and all character names therein are owned by Warner Brothers, Bad Robot, and Kilter Films. All characters are fictional and resemblance to any persons living or dead is coincidental. No copyright infringement is intended.

Perchance to Dream  
by Sailor Chronos

Part 1: Dreaming

March 10 2016

John Reese dreamed of pain, and falling, and then oblivion. He was aware that he was dreaming: his intense military training allowed him to recognize the difference between hallucinations and mere dreams. However he didn't remember why he was dreaming, or how long the images had been taunting him. What he did know was that he absolutely had to find something, but whenever he seemed to be getting closer to his goal, the ever-present darkness behind him threatened to pull him back.

This time he stood in an apparently mundane school hallway lined with coloured lockers and filled with laughing teenagers. However at a second glance he noticed that all the kids had barcodes tattooed onto the back of their right hand and coiled wires dangling from their left ear. As one they turned to him and shouted, "You didn't save us!" Filled with a sudden inexplicable panic, he sprinted down the hallway, just narrowly avoiding their grasping hands. Perhaps they were right, he thought. For every life he had saved, there was another that he'd been unable to help.

Something flew over his head and he instinctively ducked, but the object turned out to be a shadowy form in the shape of a bird. He followed it, but with every turn it appeared farther away from him and he was unable to catch up no matter how fast he ran. "Wait for me, please!" he called out, but it disappeared into the distance. Disembodied hands grabbed at him as the school corridor began to warp and shrink. Spotting a nearby yellow locker that was open, he leaped into it. 

* * *

Harold Finch writhed restlessly but could find no comfort. He dreamed that something very important to him was missing, but for some reason he couldn't identify it or figure out where to start looking for it. Grey landscapes, streets, and buildings raced by him in a blur. Was he flying? Was he falling? He couldn't tell. The only thing he saw clearly was a dark humanoid figure holding its arms out, far ahead of him.

Abruptly his feet found purchase, and he saw that he had landed on a thin golden rope suspended over a bright green floor that was crisscrossed by many similar ropes. He spread his arms carefully and attempted to make his way along the rope toward its far terminus. In reality he shouldn't be able to balance like this due to his injured back, but in a dream it seemed that anything was possible.

As he neared the end of the rope, a sharp sound like that of a gunshot echoed through the area. The floor below him fragmented into hundreds of shards that careened in all directions and sliced through the rope. Grasping wildly at the air as he fell, he managed to catch hold of a beige bar striped with odd colours – and one end of the bar was supported by that same dark figure.

* * *

After a moment's disorientation, John saw that he was in a narrow, dingy alley. The muffled drone of city traffic emanated from all sides. Movement from above him caught his eye, and he saw a window from which faded yellow curtains billowed out into the breeze. A rickety metal fire escape protruded from the wall below the window.

Tires screeched in the end of the alley, and he whirled to see a black limousine accelerating toward him. There was nowhere to run except up the fire escape, so he sprang up to the ladder just in time as the car roared beneath his flailing legs, missing him by inches. He expected the car to exit the other end of the alley and merge into the traffic, but instead it violently crashed into a school bus that happened to be passing at that moment. Both the limo and the front of the bus burst into flames.

He dropped back to the ground, hesitant to approach the inferno to find out if there were survivors that needed help, until he heard a familiar voice from inside the bus urgently calling his name. Racing forward, he reached the rear emergency door of the bus and wrenched it open. Then he scrambled inside, groping around through the smoke as he tried to locate the source of the call. His hand closed around something, and he saw that he was holding a tiny grey and yellow bird with black wings. Quickly he launched it out of the rear of the bus and it flew away, as the flames engulfed the vehicle with him still inside.

* * *

The next time that Harold dreamed, he was surrounded by dark grey curtains that flapped and undulated as if in a fierce wind, yet he felt no air movement on his skin. He carefully lifted a curtain aside only to be blocked by another identical one. When he looked up he saw a mirrored ceiling, the reflection showing that all the curtains formed a seemingly endless labyrinth.

He wasn't about to spend an excessive amount of time threading his way through a maze that might not have a discernible exit. Removing his tie clip, he grasped one of the curtains firmly with his free hand and slashed the clip across; the curtain tore in a satisfying manner and fluttered to the ground. Emboldened, he strode forward and continued to rip the curtains down one by one, making a path for himself, until he came to a drapery that was much larger than the others. Cocooned tightly in its center was the dark figure that had assisted him previously, but for some reason he couldn't see its face. "You didn't save me," it croaked.

The thought came to his mind that he had been unable to save another person who was dear to him. Perhaps he could make up for that by doing the right thing here. "I will save you," he insisted, and attacked the curtain with his clip. All the pieces he had torn down suddenly animated and began to wrap themselves around him, forcing him to abandon his rescue attempt. In a desperate move he transferred the tie clip to his hand that was closest to the dark figure, and stretched it out. He called, "Save yourself," just before the cloth smothered his face.

* * *

The smoke and fire faded, and then a comfortable darkness surrounded John, along with a faint rhythmic pulsation that sounded reminiscent of a heartbeat. Whose heartbeat, he asked himself idly.

A bright wrinkle appeared in the gloom in front of him, resolving into the shape of a face. "Mr. Reese," it said.

With a start, he recognized that voice; it could be no other. "Finch?" He moved closer. Why was his friend in his dreams?

The apparition warped and was absorbed back into the dark, but in a few seconds it reappeared further above him. "Save me, John," it called.

"I already did!" he responded. He reached desperately around himself, searching for a solid object to grab or climb onto, an effort which proved futile as he found nothing. "You were supposed to live and be happy. Are you haunting me because of what I did?" When the face faded away, he fell to his knees in anguish. "Why can't I be at peace?"

The next time the face became visible, it was so far above him that he could barely see it, much less hear the words that filtered down to him. "That wasn't the way. Save yourself, John." Then he was alone once again.

Save himself, he thought sarcastically. How? He had been quite ready to die ever since his beloved Jessica had been killed by her abusive husband. His work of saving lives with Finch, and the tragic shooting death of their friend Detective Joss Carter had cemented his resolve to find some way to go out heroically. And he had done that: changing places with Finch at the crucial moment so that the last person he had cared about could have the life he deserved.

But Finch hadn't wanted to live either, had he? He had planned everything so that he would be the one to take the fall, as personal atonement for his role in the rise of the Samaritan supercomputer and everything that had happened afterward. Finch had even locked John in a bank vault in the hopes of keeping him safe, not knowing that John had already made a bargain with Finch's Machine to take his place.

Harold's dream voice had pleaded to be saved. Did that mean he still wanted to die, even now, despite John's own last words to him? _Sometimes one life, if it is the right life, is enough_. Was the darkness of his past still troubling him so much that it made his new life unbearable, to the point where he was yearning for the one person who had shared in that darkness and truly understood it?

The truth that he had been avoiding for a long time burst upon him like a nova. Both he and Harold had difficult pasts, had done terrible things, and had many personal failures along the way. They each became so fixated on their mutual mission, and on what they had lost, that they had failed to appreciate what was right in front of them. They'd had each other. They had redeemed each other. Could they, he dared to think, even have loved each other but were too proud or scared to admit it?

That's what the voice had meant: in order to truly save Harold, to love him and understand him, and help him feel the same, John had to save himself first.

The sound of the heartbeat around him grew stronger. He now knew it to be his own, and he reveled in it, feeling the warmth and strength that he needed to get out of this self-imposed black hole of a dream and wake up. A gentle yellow light winked into existence above him and he willed himself to fly toward it. The darkness around him formed tendrils that tried to latch onto his legs; he kicked out savagely and they recoiled. He felt his entire body being squeezed then – the dark wasn't going to give him up that easily – but he growled in defiance and continued to struggle, focusing on the one precious person that meant light and purpose.

 _Harold_.

His dream shattered. 


	2. Waking

Person of Interest and all character names therein are owned by Warner Brothers, Bad Robot, and Kilter Films. All characters are fictional and resemblance to any persons living or dead is coincidental. No copyright infringement is intended.

Part 2: Waking

John gasped for breath like a near-drowned swimmer breaking the water's surface, and his eyes flew open, his heart hammering in his chest. He tried to speak but his voice didn't seem to work and he managed only a soft wheeze. At once a cacophony of alarms went off, disturbing him further. It was only when several people in scrubs rushed into the room in response to the noise that he realized that he was in a hospital bed and connected to an IV drip, catheter, and several other tubes and pieces of monitoring equipment.

He remembered how much he hated hospitals, with their cold air and antiseptic smells.

The next thing that registered was the dull aches emanating from all over his body, particularly his right arm.

Although he recovered his bearings quickly, his patience was severely tested over the next few hours as doctors and nurses checked his readings, poked and prodded him, and did tests. Eventually the room emptied and a single doctor in a blindingly white lab coat remained, who proceeded to tell him that his body had sustained such devastating trauma that it should have been fatal, but somehow he had lived. After undergoing multiple but vital surgeries he had slipped into a coma and remained unresponsive for several months. His myriad injuries had been meticulously treated and were well on their way to being healed, but many of his major muscle groups had atrophied somewhat despite the careful work of physical therapists that had come in to move his flaccid limbs for him.

The shock and disbelief the medical team expressed when John asked to be allowed to leave the hospital as soon as possible was almost comical.

"Look," he snarled at them. "There's someone very important out there that I need to find, so just give me the bottom line so I can deal with it. I once hunted down a criminal while bleeding out from a bullet in my gut; if I could do that, I can do this."

The damage was extensive, more so than any other harm that he had sustained over his career. To start there were more than a dozen bullet wounds, a shattered right humerus and shoulder blade, and perforated rotator cuff, all of which John already knew that he had suffered during the gunfight. The bulletproof vest he had been wearing could only do so much. Then there were many contusions plus concussion from the force of the explosion, not to mention fractures and shrapnel throughout his body from flying debris during the subsequent collapse of part of the roof onto the floor below. It had been called a major miracle: the fact that he had survived all that, the airlift to the hospital, and the first emergency surgery. Most of the other men who had been on the roof and top floor of the building that morning had not been so fortunate.

There was still a long way for him to go before he could consider himself fit. During his coma he had been nourished by a feeding tube, so now he would have to adhere to a strict diet regimen to get his digestive system accustomed to solid food again. Also he must undergo regular physiotherapy to strengthen his wasted muscles. His right arm and shoulder were now held together by plates and rods, so he would not be able to exert much force on it for the foreseeable future, if at all.

John was inwardly amused at the irony that he probably couldn't ever wield a weapon effectively in that hand again. With Samaritan destroyed, however, he hoped that he would never need to.

* * *

When Harold woke in the grey pre-dawn light he briefly panicked when he found himself partially tangled in the bedsheets due to his unconscious movements. He eased himself into a sitting position and began to unwind the sheets slowly in an attempt to not disturb Grace who lay next to him. His fiancée's presence was a comfort on these anxious nights, as were the soft neutral colours of the room's décor. Despite his care she stirred and raised her head. Her red wavy hair cascaded across her pillow – not unlike blood, he suddenly thought, and swallowed hard against the memories that threatened to plunge him back into his grief.

"The nightmares again?" she asked in concern as she raised herself to one elbow and lovingly caressed his back with her free hand. "You have been taking your medication?"

To his shame it still required a mental effort to not flinch from that contact. One could not erase years of constant tension during a few months. "Yes, but this time it didn't seem to be effective." He retrieved his glasses from his night table, and then picked up a small pill bottle to look at it. "Perhaps I have developed a tolerance to it."

"Will you talk about it?"

He wanted to, but couldn't find the right way to express what he was feeling. As he put the bottle back on the table the words burst out of him involuntarily. "I need to return to New York."

Grace stiffened in alarm. "What? Why? You told me that Samaritan was gone and that you had nothing else holding you there any more."

"That was true," he confirmed. "But these dreams… make me feel that something is different now."

She sat up and put her arm lovingly about his shoulders. "You still carry a lot of guilt, I can see it. But you need to let go, Harold. You can't live your life in a perpetual state of self-castigation. Your friend wouldn't have wanted that."

A tremor shook him and he gasped as the images from his recent dream flashed into his mind once again. "John." He glanced down morosely at the richly woven rug next to the bed, something that Grace had bought at a local market. "I abandoned him at the end. It was a terrible disservice to such a good friend."

"If you hadn't, you might not have lived," she reminded him. "He knew that."

"Not then," he admitted with a slight shake of his head. "Later, when I heard he had somehow survived and was in hospital, but not likely to last a few hours." His voice wavered. "I took care of all of the formalities, but I simply could not watch him die." Not as he had seen his friend Nathan die in the ferry bombing. "It would have been too painful after… everything. Instead I left."

"Harold…" Grace whispered, shocked.

"I had convinced myself that the odds were not promising, that not even he could live through what had taken place. But what if by some miracle he did? That is what has been distressing me."

With a deep sigh she lay back down on the bed. "And perhaps that's why you've been rather inhibited with me, too. Why you rarely talk about what happened, and why you hesitate to be intimate." Abruptly she sat up again as something occurred to her. "Did you love him?"

He turned to stare at her, dumbfounded. "He was a loyal employee and a dear friend, only that. Besides, neither of us was oriented in that direction."

True as that might have been, she knew him well enough to perceive when he was hiding something. "Did you love him?" she repeated insistently. When he closed his eyes and couldn't answer, her eyes misted. From what Harold had told her about John, she suspected that his relationship with the man was so much more than mere friendship than either man had had the courage to voice, but she had never broached the subject out of respect for her fiancé. "Then go and find out, Harold," she said sadly as she removed the diamond and sapphire ring from her left hand and presented it to him on her palm. "You have my permission to do what you need to do. If you can't resolve things within your own mind and heart, we can't move forward. _You_ can't."

He gently closed her hand around the ring, took a shuddering breath and laid one hand upon her cheek. "I held onto the memory of you for years. It gave me the motivation to continue, to make the world safer for you, and for everyone. You have been so inspirational and wonderful for me." Even as he said it, he knew he was just trying to forcibly realign his confused emotions for her benefit. It felt wrong. "If I leave now and discover something unexpected, I might not be able or even willing to come back."

Tears rolled down her face but her voice remained steady. "Then I will understand. I want you to be happy, Harold. It's clear that you're not entirely comfortable with me, not as you once were; which is not fair to either of us. But promise me," she said firmly as she gripped his arm, "keep in touch. No matter what happens, it will be better if I know how you're faring."

Harold embraced her tenderly. "I promise."


	3. Living

Person of Interest and all character names therein are owned by Warner Brothers, Bad Robot, and Kilter Films. All characters are fictional and resemblance to any persons living or dead is coincidental. No copyright infringement is intended.

Part 3: Living

12 March 2016

It had taken almost two days before all the arrangements had been finalized and paperwork signed. John had given them little choice in the matter: if they didn't remove the tubes and needles from his body and pronounce him well enough to leave the hospital, he was going to walk out on his own even if he had to swipe a pair of crutches. However he knew better than to argue with the restrictions that had been placed upon him. His previous experience with injuries in the field had taught him that one could not rush the body's healing process no matter how excellent the treatment had been or how hard one pushed it.

When he was finally discharged, clothed in nondescript sweatpants and jacket, and allowed to go home with his right arm in a sling, he balked. He wasn't certain where "home" was any more. The library and the subway had been compromised, as well as several of the old safe houses, and he didn't want to risk returning to any of those locations even though there was no further danger from Decima or Samaritan. His identity of Detective John Riley was out of commission as well, having been presumed dead after the missile explosion.

There was one place that might still be available: the loft on Baxter Street that Finch had gifted to him. Even though he had not been there for months, he recalled that its expenses were paid via a series of shell accounts that Finch had set up and there was no limit on the lease, so it would likely not have been sublet.

Once he was settled in, he would start his search. It would be a challenge, because while he guessed that Finch had joined Grace in Italy, the man was a master of hiding his identity. Finch, Wren, Crane, Whistler… how many types of bird were there in the world? Would he revert to his real surname, which he had never mentioned? Plus there was no Machine now to ask for help.

No matter, he would track Finch down the old fashioned way if he had to.

* * *

Harold stepped off the plane at La Guardia airport and was quickly escorted to a waiting car by the security detail that he had hired. Thanks to his many contingencies, access to one of his cover identities as well as his vast resources had been restored upon the demise of Samaritan, which enabled him to move about as freely as he once had. He was dropped off at an upscale hotel, but as soon as he had registered at the front desk and paid a porter to deliver his luggage to his room, he surreptitiously exited and hailed a taxi. Although one Harold Wren was booked into the hotel for five days to attend a conference on insurance and investment, his true destination was one of the safe houses that he was certain had not been exposed.

The first thing he did once he arrived at the apartment was to set up the laptop he had been carrying in a briefcase. With the Machine shut down he had to resort to his own somewhat out of practise hacking skills. Luckily it didn't take him long to gain access to the records of the hospital where he had left John four months ago, and the most recent entry on John's file was from earlier that very morning when the patient had been discharged.

His hands froze above the keyboard and his blood roared.

Not deceased. _Discharged_.

John was alive!

Shaken, it took him a few moments to fully comprehend the magnitude of this revelation. His dearest friend, whom he had last seen lying comatose and near death, was alive! Not only that, he was well, and had been able to leave the hospital on his own.

Harold's fingers flew across the keys as he set up a search routine. New York City had a population of over eight and a half million people. John Reese was almost as adept at hiding as he himself was. Locating him would be like looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack… or would it?

He tried to think as John might. It was to be assumed that he planned to start a new life either here in the city or elsewhere. The first place that he was likely to go to ground had to be familiar, supplied, and easily defended. Many of the secure sites that had been set up prior to and during their work together were now inoperative, so he would avoid those. He also would abstain from contacting their allies Detective Fusco and Ms. Shaw.

Would John think of contacting him? No; not after what had been said and done. As far as John was concerned, Harold was in Italy and wanted to remain so, making a new life and home with Grace.

"Home," he whispered. Wait a moment.

Baxter Street.

That's where John would go.

Harold snapped the laptop closed, swept up his jacket, and left as quickly as his damaged leg would allow.

* * *

Upon reaching the apartment building, instead of doing the obvious thing and using the elevator, John struggled mightily to get up the stairs, figuring that the sooner he started to use his legs, the better. The cab driver had happily accepted a generous tip to help bring his belongings up. The loft was just as he had left it, tidied to military precision and blessedly quiet. There was no sign of anyone having been there since… that day.

He removed everything that remained in the refrigerator and disposed of it immediately, and then cleaned the appliance thoroughly before installing the supplies that he had bought on the way here. His stomach was craving a burger, but he knew the discomfort that indulgence would cause. Instead he selected a container of flavoured gelatin and gave it a disgusted look before opening it and downing the contents. At least, he told himself, it was only for a few days.

Already tired from his efforts he dropped into a chair and began to massage his legs which were aching from the unaccustomed use. Long-term patients didn't normally just stand up and walk around as if nothing had happened. But this pain was a good thing: it told him that he was aware and functioning. After a few minutes he stretched his legs, and then rather clumsily levered himself out of the chair with his left arm. He wobbled a bit but was able to stand again.

He stripped down to a t-shirt and boxers, and spent the next hour doing a series of exercises that had been suggested by the physiotherapists at the hospital. They were nothing more strenuous than basic movements and stretches, essential to getting his muscles to move as they should, but it felt as if he had heavy weights tied onto his limbs. At the end of the routine he was out of breath and sweating like he had run five miles through the desert, so he decided to take a shower.

As the warm water cascaded over him it irritated the still-sore spots where he had been connected to the hospital equipment, but he was able to bear it. Gradually he began to relax and reflect on what had happened. By all rights he should have died in the missile strike. Not all missiles had the same payload but Samaritan would not have cared about how much ordinance was required to just destroy the antenna; it would've used what was available to preserve itself. He couldn't rule out the likelihood that the Machine had somehow managed to manipulate things behind the scenes as it often did, such as adjusting the missile payload, hacking its guidance system so it would impact in a slightly different place, or directing him to a position that offered the highest odds for survival. Or his survival could have been pure chance. It was impossible to know for certain.

Nevertheless, he was alive and more or less in one piece, and had a task in front of him. He knew that when – yes, _when_ – he found Harold, he would have a few questions for his former boss. Not to mention, he thought with a half-smile, an admission of feelings that he had long denied.

Hair damp but once again clad in his accustomed Hugo Boss suit, he felt more like himself. He paused for a moment to feel the material, remembering the first time that Finch had insisted that he dress appropriately for the job. The instant that he stepped into the main area of the loft, however, he saw that it was no longer empty. Someone was standing in the entry. An intruder? Reflexively he reached toward his belt for a gun that wasn't there, and he grimaced as pain surged up his right arm. In the next second he recognized who the visitor actually was. And was further shocked at what he was wearing.

* * *

Harold hadn't at all expected their reunion to unfold this way.

He had let himself into the loft with the spare key that he carried, to see John standing right in front of him, dressed in his so-familiar suit as if he was preparing to go out on a mission.

It was like seeing a ghost. John was pale, his hair slicked back, and the suit hanging from a much thinner frame than it had been originally made for. But his sea-blue eyes were keen and purposeful.

Alive.

The ex-agent stopped in his tracks and attempted to grasp a non-existent firearm but cringed in pain, and then stared pointedly at Harold's chest. The programmer flicked his eyes downward in curiosity. For some reason Reese's attention had been caught by the tie he had on – which by a bizarre coincidence was a pale yellow silk four-in-hand tie that was hauntingly similar to the one that he had been wearing on… that day.

Why had he noticed that particular accessory?

* * *

For a long moment, neither spoke; each scarcely able to believe that the other was actually standing in the same room. The tension was palpable.

Reese broke the awkward silence first. "Finch?" he said hesitantly.

Finch's mouth dropped open as inestimable joy at seeing John and hearing his voice coursed through him. "Mr. Reese," he replied in a shaky voice. He was unable to say anything more as he suddenly found himself being clasped in a hug. The actual physical touch of the man finally convinced him that this was real, not a dream. The younger man was trembling, Finch realized: with emotion that he was desperately trying to hold in. Just as Finch instinctively tensed, Reese released him and stepped back, concerned about exacerbating both of their pre-existing injuries.

"Why did you leave?" Reese asked in his low monotone.

The simple question stunned Finch as memories of the past months flew through his mind, back to the horrible day where Reese had bid him goodbye on the rooftop. He cleared his throat. "You told me to leave."

"That's not what I meant."

The stoic look on Reese's face made him feel worse than any harsh words the man could have thrown at him, and Finch struggled to keep control. "You were comatose… barely alive. The doctors said that because there was such a remote chance of recovery, removing life support would be the kindest thing to do." When he saw Reese's gaze harden, he blundered on. "I made the appropriate preparations and then departed, because I couldn't bear to watch. John… I'm so sorry. I truly believed that you had died."

Reese took a step forward and then stopped; his entire body rigid as if he were a tiger poised to spring upon its prey. "I dreamed," he said. "I was chasing something, but I couldn't catch it. In each dream, something yellow gave me a clue that told me what to do." He indicated Harold's tie, and continued, "Then I heard your voice." Finch tried to interject, but Reese raised a hand to forestall him. "After a while I wanted to stop running. I wanted to be at peace. But something kept pushing me to keep going until…" he took a breath. "Until I could escape from the darkness that permeated my life… until I found what I was looking for."

A sense of wonder flared within Finch. "Is it even possible," he began, "for dreams to be shared? I had gone to Italy and found Grace, hoping to relieve my guilt." He allowed himself a smile. "She was so compassionate; she accepted my broken self as if no time had passed at all. Most nights, however, I dreamed of being trapped somewhere, and being aided by a dark figure that I couldn't see clearly. At first I thought it to be post-traumatic stress and sought medical help, but that only mitigated the situation for a short time." His legs were stiffening up, so he began to limp slowly around the room to alleviate them, acutely aware that Reese's eyes were following every halting step. "Two nights ago I had the most vivid dream of all: the dark figure who had been helping me became the one who needed help. As a result I decided that I must return to New York immediately and seek its meaning, or I could never rest."

"I woke up two nights ago," Reese stated simply.

Finch whirled toward him in awe, his face ashen. "John…"

The ex-operative nodded. "They took me off life support, but I didn't die. I didn't know how long I was lying there just existing… and dreaming. They told me later it was months."

"Mr. Reese, I…" Finch stammered. He had read as much in the hospital file but hearing it directly made his mistake more ghastly.

"It wasn't your fault," Reese said softly, his tone conveying forgiveness. "You had no way of knowing. And you're right: I had told you to leave. But even at that moment when I was certain that I was going to die, deep inside I knew that we needed each other then, more than ever."

"I should never have left," Finch said stubbornly, and then stopped with a shake of his head. "Recriminations are pointless now. We both know I would not have survived that day had you not done what you did."

"I chose to," Reese said, his voice firming. "If I hadn't, I wouldn't have been able to live with the guilt, or admit to myself why I chose that fate."

"You need not explain," Finch demurred, but something clicked in his mind and he pursued that tack instead. "The dreams," he said with fascination creeping into his voice. "Science has postulated that dreams are merely the brain's way of sorting random subconscious images and memories; they are not believed to impart any true meaning or portent." He glanced up at Reese, who still maintained a neutral expression although it was obvious that he was having difficulty doing so. "Why, then, did we both feel an overwhelming need to find each other?"

The words were out before he realized what he had said, and he automatically brought a hand to his mouth as if to erase them. It was unthinkable. He preferred women. Reese preferred women. How could there possibly be any such emotional attachment between two men who had been employer and employee, colleagues, and friends? Yes, Reese had been intensely loyal to a fault, to the point of taking bullets for him, and literally sacrificing himself even though he had never been asked to do so. But that? "No, I can't accept an answer that would indicate such…"

"Harold, love is love; should gender really matter?" Reese said, moving to within a foot of him but taking care to not touch him this time. "Science might say otherwise, but when I woke up, I had to accept that my dreams meant something. Why had I lived, if not for a purpose?" He paused, collecting his thoughts, and Finch didn't interrupt. "You once pulled me back from the brink; you saved me and gave me a purpose. That purpose wasn't just to save lives. It was to save you from yourself, even though you didn't know it at the time."

"I…" Finch hesitated, and then gazed at Reese, seeing him in a new light. "You're right. I wanted to help others, yes, but my ultimate motivation was to avenge Nathan and make things right: my own perception of 'right'." He sighed. "The Machine stopped me from making some terrible mistakes. And it was the Machine that led me to you." Turning away from Reese, he lowered his head in regret. "I loved Grace. Even after I left her and started working with the Machine, I still loved her. I watched over her and took care of her from afar for over five years and she never knew. When it was all over, I had hoped that she and I could go back to what we had been." He then continued bitterly, "I should have known that was unfeasible. We were both too traumatized, and separated for too long. In the end I was no longer in love with her; I merely was infatuated with an ideal. The dreams I had were telling me that I needed something else, some _one_ else. Grace was able to understand that before I could, and she released me."

Reese touched Finch lightly on the shoulder and the older man turned back to him. He looked at his former employer for a long moment, his heart pounding, and finally came out with it. "I love you, Harold," he said in a voice barely above a whisper. Finch gaped at him but he plunged ahead. "I have no right to it, but there it is. That's what kept me alive. Even in my dreams, no matter what pursued me or tried to drag me down, I couldn't stop searching. I was looking for you."

"John," Finch managed to murmur before Reese's lips touched his, briefly, tentatively.

That small contact unleashed a torrent within him: an explosion of emotion that suffused his very core and toppled all the mental barriers that he had put up since the accident to protect himself, barriers that he'd been unable to lower completely even for Grace. Never had he felt so susceptible, yet so protected, by the presence of the very man whom he cared about so much.

He did love John Reese.

The realization caused his knees to weaken and he put his arms around John's shoulders to steady himself. John responded by pulling him into a gentle embrace. The rational part of him exerted itself briefly against this newly born bliss but lost, and with a soft sigh of profound and unutterable longing he returned the kiss, leaning into it with abandon. This was what he had sought, what he needed. There was nothing now that could separate them.

John held Harold against him closely. Whoever's dream it had been – his, Harold's, the Machine's – neither of them could really know, but from now on they would make some dreams together amid a better world.

THE END

Sailor Chronos  
February 2018

I would like to thank the following people:

My husband, as always, for his support.

My beta-readers scully1138 and SunflashNurse.

The Person of Interest community on FanFiction dot Net for continuing to contribute their stories and keeping the dream alive.


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